A Day at the Beach

One of the joys of parenting is getting do-overs, getting to re-experience the novelties of life through the eyes of your child. Whether those experiences were joyous or difficult, memorable or non-existent, they have the opportunity to be remembered, shared, and recreated.

I spent a good chunk (pun intended) of my childhood overweight and uncomfortable in my own, and those feelings were amplified in surroundings such as public swimming pools, beaches, and the 1980's where neither pegged pants nor my Flock of Seagulls hairdo made me feel any better about myself. Carrie dealt with similar issues in her childhood, though her fashion sense probably served as a stronger protective factor than mine. Nonetheless, we got each other and support each other's silent boycott of uncomfortable settings.

Now that Amari's here, I realize I have to get over it. I know the way I feel about myself is incongruous with the way I look, but more importantly I can't deprive Amari of experiences that she will no doubt enjoy just because I'm self-conscious. In Tahoe I began the journey of not giving a shit, and took Amari to the community pool in my dad's neighborhood. We had a blast, and I succeeded at feeling comfortable, even confident and proud as my little girl braved the novelty of the biggest pool she'd ever seen.

Today, back at home, we had our first family beach day. Carrie was reticent, but agreed to go. The Gold's joined us and we all enjoyed splashing around in the water, walking on the sand, soaking up the sun, and watching our little people take it all in.

Amari had been to the beach a few times as a pre-walking infant, and she loved it, but since she started walking the sand kind of freaks her out a little. Initially, this time was no different, and she wanted to be carried down to the water. When I tried to put her down on the firm sand, she would raise her feet up and squeal. She had me carry her into a little river by the ocean and walk around for quite some time before she got the courage up to walk along its shore. By the end of the afternoon, however, she was traipsing through streams, climbing up sand banks, and thoroughly exhausting herself.

Besides watching Amari overcome her fears, the highlight of the afternoon was building drip castles with Noah by the water. He's a better architect than I am, but it was nice reminiscing about our early beach days - his in Hawaii and mine thousands of miles away on the west coast of India. It's pretty cool how life brings up together with the people we love.

Today

About a year ago today

Assertiveness Training at Tot Town

It's actually called Tahoe Tot Spot, and it happens to be where I've spent the last two mornings re-acclimating to daytime single-parenting. Carrie has an AP English training this week, so we've combined a vacation visit to my dad's in South Lake Tahoe with her professional obligation on north shore. Tahoe Tot Spot is a super fun indoor playground I wrote about in April where there is open playtime for toddlers from 10 - 2 almost every day. It's about a thousand square feet of gym mats, trampolines, balls (an entire pool of balls pictured above), scooters, dolls, toys, and other kids. And best of all, it's a prelude to long-assed afternoon naps - which I happen to be enjoying right now.

It's also a great venue for other parents to get adult contact. I've been pleasantly surprised by how candid both the moms and dads I've met there are. Parenting is truly an experience that can unite total strangers - like surviving natural disasters or war. There is also the common thread of pride and joy we all experience and there is no better audience than another parent dying to share their story.

Yesterday's visit at "The Spot" was relatively uneventful. The owner's daughter, Daisy showed Amari the ropes and invited her to play a game of make believe family where (I know it's a stretch) I was The Dad, Amari was The Kid, and she was The Big Sister. Very Cute. I learned later that she has a big sister of her own and wants more than anything to be one herself. According to her mom, she's SOL outside the realm of make believe. I don't blame mom, two seems like plenty.

Today, however, there was another (much less adorable) little sister longing to be big. I should preface by telling you that she also had some weird skin condition all over her legs and arms that made me uncomfortable in a protective parenting kind of way. I'm sure it wasn't contagious, but that didn't stop me from tracking where the kid had sat and what she had touched.

In the kitchen area Amari was playing her third round of fill the shopping cart with fake fruits and veggies when Scabby decided to join in and help with the shopping. Amari didn't mind the girl filling the cart for her, but when she tried to help push the cart Amari (sort of) gently removed her hand. The girl persisted, and the second time, Amari grabbed her by the wrist, removed her hand from the cart, and then backed the girl up to the closest wall and placed her arm against it. Had I not seen the events leading up to her acts, I might have worried Amari was bullying the three year-old, but having witnessed the whole thing I felt a little pride mixed with some serious worry that she'd touched a very rashy, disgusting wrist for much, much too long.

Later on, back in the Ball Pool, Amari was gaining confidence, sliding off the edge and into the pool and eventually letting me toss her in from the edge. Towards the end of our time, a grandma showed up with two boys - probably about two and four years old. I don't usually believe in coincidence and this was no exception, because at approximately the same time as the two boys showed up, the Pool of Balls started smelling like poo. And by approximately, I mean exactly, and by started smelling like poo, I mean really started smelling like poo. As a subtle gesture, I said, "Amari, did you make poo poo?" then picked her up and checked her pants. The other parents ignored my hint. I rinsed, repeated, and said out loud, "Let me double check. Nope. No poo poo here." Nothing. Finally, I said, "I think somebody in this pool has a doo doo." The mom and grandma checked and both said they'd found nothing. Later on in the kitchen area, same grandma, same boys, same smell. Mercifully, it was noon and time to head home for this glorious nap...

When Amari wakes up, we'll have lunch and head down to the community pool. So far on this vacation she has graduated from her four inches of water at home to Jess's two foot pool to my dad's hot tub to full immersion in a nice outdoor pool by the lake. Video and pictures coming soon. For now, here are some more action shots from Tot Town.

Cruisin'

Protective Gear

Cowgirl 

Ahhhh, balls of poo...

Numb3rs

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During tonight's ritual of postponing sleep by naming parts of my face, I asked Amari if she wanted to count with me. She'd surprised me earlier in the week by saying the number "two" while I was counting, and then yesterday Carrie said she'd uttered other random numbers all the way up to ten. 

I started us off with "one," she said "two," I said "three," 

"four"

"five"

"six"

"seven"

"nine"

"What about eight?" I asked, and she just giggled. I imagine she will continue to blow my mind on a daily basis for years to come.

What did happen to eight?

Love is the Underside of Leaves

I can't remember who wrote it or why it meant so much to me, but there was a time when "Love is the underside of leaves" was, in my opinion, just about the best thing ever written. It was actually on a short list of names for this blog. It moved me, it made perfect sense, and it was exactly what I needed at the time. That's what parenting has become these past weeks - a series of moments, one after another, each dethroning its predecessor as the perfect memory - the new queen of the cutest things ever. I imagine it's like pausing at breathtaking views on the long journey up Mt. Everest thinking, "Wow. It doesn't get any better than this," and then finding an even better view just around the corner.

I honestly can't keep up anymore. I had a fantasy that I would keep track of every word Amari ever said in a little journal and be able to tell her later, "And the six hundred and tenth through twentieth words you said were Why the fuck is Dada always writing in that stupid journal. So adorable." Instead, I struggle to get my own words out twice a month. In the spirit of re-commitment and never being caught dead with a Word Journal, however, I will now try to write more often and more briefly about the cute shit Amari does. I would probably call it, "Love is the Cute Shit Amari Does," and it would mean everything to me.

Here are a few catch up stories:

1. HOT!!

Hot is a good word to teach your kid. Long before any words came out of her mouth, Carrie and I agreed that it would be funny to teach Amari the meaning of the word hot (as it pertains to a stove because that's a powerful lesson), and then use the word freely to keep Amari away from things like electric sockets, our television, and food we don't want to share.

This never happened, but Amari did eventually learn the correct meaning of hot and cold and is able to use them correctly and contextually. The other night during dinner, however, I gave Amari a piece of chicken with some hidden hot sauce on it. Amari immediatly began whining her protests, so I went to the sink to get her some cold water. She followed me with her tongue sticking out of her mouth saying, "Hot, hot, hot..." and before I could fill a cup up for her she began licking the fridge door, which she'd already learned was just about the coldest place in our house.

2. GOOD GIRL

About a week ago, Amari's language development took off. She went from yeah, no, kay, more, etc. to surprising the hell out of us at every turn. During a family meal with Granny C, we let one of her dogs, Emma, into the dinning room to clean up the food around Amari's high chair. Amari can say Emma clear as day and loves doing it whenever she gets a chance, often yelling "Emma! Emma!" when Emma is nowhere to be seen. Yesterday, on a walk in Marin, we passed a black lab on our way down to Phoenix lake. A very silent Amari suddenly perked up and began yelling, "Emma! Emma!"

On this occasion, however, after Emma had licked up all of Amari's fallen pasta, I said, "Amari can you give her a pat?" She obliged, and I added, "Good girl, Emma," and Amari immediately mimicked, "Goo gir, Emma," and gave her another pat. Wow, that's a freakin' sentence we all marveled.

A couple of days and a few timely "Goo gir's" later, Amari had done something I appreciated, so I signed and said, "Thank you, Amari." She smiled, patted herself on the chest and said, "Goo gir." Yes you are, I agreed.

3. MONKEY SEE

A couple of mornings ago I was so grateful that I no longer smoke cigarettes, drink, or do drugs when Amari picked up my little bottle of nasal spray and began imitating a sniffing sound as she stuck the pointy end up each of her nostrils. Time to start being very conscious of what I say and do.

4. GOODNIGHT FOR NOW

We're on the road at Babaji's house in Tahoe now. We spent two lovely days in Marin where Amari grew more comfortable with both Jessica and her swimming pool. When I put her to bed tonight, after her ritual bottle she wasn't quite tired enough so she engaged me in a game of Which Part of Your Face is That? She points and says things like, "Nose," "Eye," "Che," until we've covered all the ones she knows and the ones she wants to know. After that, she said, "Bye Dad," expecting Mama to come and take over as she usually does at home. I happened to know that wasn't going to happen, so I said, "No, Dada stay." She looked at me for a moment, then patted my arm and said, "Goo gir, Dada," and snuggled up to sleep.

Words, words, words...

Last week my buddy Noah turned me on to a new comedian named Bo Burnham who has a one hour special called "Words, words, words." Burnham is a nineteen year-old, self-made YouTube star, who plays the guitar and the piano, sings, pushes the comedic envelop, and is an incredible wordsmith. At one point in his show, in response to traditional comedians who frown upon the use of instruments or props, Burnham claims, "I don't need that stuff. I can do straight comedy," standing very still in front of his mic he continues, "What do you call a guy with no arms or legs and an eye patch?"

"Names," he blurts and throws confetti he'd pulled from his pants into the audience. That still makes me giggle.

On the home front, Amari is also all about words, words, words. She comes out with new ones every day, and she appears to be gaining confidence and momentum. A couple of weeks ago she finally came out with the word "No." Although we've been saying it to her for months, she never said it back. She used words like "Yeah," and "Kay," often, decisively, even enthusiastically, but the head shake was her go to rejection move. Now she the word.

As are many things with toddlers, "No" was initially adorable. "Watch this we'd boast," asking Amari if she wanted to change her diaper or take a nap. I even managed to train her to respond to the question "What does Dada say?" with a confident "No, no, no." She would even sing the word sometimes, making whatever she was saying no to completely and utterly meaningless. "Do you want to brush your teeth?" Singing melodically (sort of), "Noooooo."

Okay, whatever you want, sweetie.

More recently, however, no has taken on a life of its own. While she used to be perfectly happy with most songs we listen to in the car, she's now like a veteran pitcher shaking off the signs from their rookie catcher. "No," next song, "No," fast forward, "No," and so on until I get the merciful "Yeah/Kay," which invariably leads to listening to that song six or seven times. If her no is ignored, she lets me hear about it. Same goes with the home movies she used to watch indiscriminately. The Power of No is strong with this one.

Other times, the words aren't so clear. A couple of mornings ago Amari woke up and started pointing above our bed and saying what sounded like "Ele-plan." We have a giant, Indian, hanging with Ganesh on the wall directly above our pillows, so I assumed and was very impressed that she was saying, "Elephant." Carrie, my English teaching wife, thought she was pointing at our ceiling fan and saying, "Air-o-plane." This, of course, led to an elaborate argument on my part as to why that was the most ridiculous thing I'd ever heard. Why on earth would she suddenly think fans are airplanes? Blah, blah, blah. Later that very day, however, Amari pointed to the ceiling fan at my brother's house and very clearly said, "Eloplan."

Although words present a whole new range of challenges, I'm really looking forward to having long and ridiculous conversations with my daughter...

Here are a few of the videos I made recently. Soon I'll have to turn down the music  so we can hear what she's saying.

Amari and friends ride our horse: http://www.vimeo.com/25542857

Animal noises with Hunter: http://www.vimeo.com/23531586

Welcome to Serena: http://www.vimeo.com/25461697

There are lots on the site once you get there, so feel free to look around.

The End of an Era

For Siobhan...

Yesterday we said good-bye to my niece, Siobhan, who has been living with us for the past ten months. She arrived last August, suddenly displaced from the boarding school home she'd lived in for the past six years, thrust into a new school in a new country with a family she barely knew. She was brave...for a while, but once the novelty had worn off she became homesick and lonely. She isolated and withdrew from our family. She became invisible - only invisible people don't leave dishes in the sink or wake up twenty minutes before it's time to go to school. She was never a bad kid, never defiant or disrespectful - I don't even think she ever intentionally did things to aggravate me. It was more passive - an unwillingness to participate in her life, in our family, and eventually that became unacceptable.

The last time I wrote about Siobhan my buddy Jim expected the entry to end with a homicide and a hidden corpse. I was frustrated, sad, guilty that I might not being doing a good enough job as Siobhan's part-time parent, and I had to vent somewhere. Eventually, when things came to a head, I talked to Siobhan about it up in Tahoe over our spring break. I suggested she might do well to go home for while, see what she was missing so much, spend time with mom and dad and friends, and if she wanted to, come back next February for her last semester of school. I needed a break, Carrie needed a break, and I believe Siobhan needed to feel like she could go home.

When spring break ended and we returned home, Siobhan was a completely different person. She seemed happy, comfortable in her skin, more like the teenager I imagined she would become. She did her chores, said please and thank you, helped out with Amari, kept her bedroom door open, and quickly became a part of our family. At school her social calendar suddenly filled up, she went to prom, and I'm pretty sure she even started studying for her SAT and AP exams. It was as complete a one-eighty as a temporary, part-time parent could hope for. Even Carrie said, "If she were like this all the time, I'd beg her to stay."

By the end of May I knew I would miss Siobhan. Not because she emptied the dishwasher every night, but because I was proud her - proud of her courage for coming here, proud of her ability to overcome the emotional and psychological challenges of such an enormous change, and proud of her willingness to do what it took to right the course when she strayed away.

I spent my entire childhood bouncing back and forth between India and America. It became a part of who I was have two separate lives. I had friends and family on both sides of the world, and eventually saying good-bye just became "See ya later." I never really missed things for very long, because they would eventually be right in front of me again. For Siobhan, this was different. Everything she knew and loved, the family of friends she'd cultivated over years, was swept out from under her. She was given unappealing choices and made a decision based on family politics and perhaps the perceived lesser of two evils. I imagine she missed everything and didn't know what to do with all of those feelings.

I learned a lot from having her here. I learned that I'm probably difficult to live with in some ways. I've learned to pick my battles and think carefully before responding. I've learned to ask open-ended questions, lest I get very closed-ended answers. I've learned that feeling like an asshole is an unavoidable experience in parenting. I've learned that it takes more than patience to inspire change. And most importantly, I've learned that I definitely need another fifteen years to get these lessons down before Amari is Siobhan's age.

All in all, I'm glad she came. When I asked her yesterday what she'd learned about herself in the last year, she gave me a very typical Siobhan answer, "I've learned lots of things." Even open-ended questions don't get you very far sometimes.

Happy travels, Siobhan. I hope you'll stay in touch and believe us when we say you're welcome to come back.

What It Means...

I'd like to say I spent the past four weeks mastering the art of potty training, basking in a diaper-free cloud of pride and euphoria, and inventing clever ways to slip said mission accomplished into every day conversation.
"Room for cream? I haven't had time to think about it with all the successful potty training I've been doing." But alas, poop in the potty was achieved merely as often as it was used as a blog title.

Instead, I turn my thoughts to Father's Day. I read a couple of articles in the newspaper this weekend describing the importance of fathers in our children's lives and lauding the recent increase in the number of stay-at-home dads. In fact, one source stated that women in our country finally outnumber men in the work force, which means dads are finally getting the opportunity to appreciate first-hand what women have known since the beginning of time: parenting is the most difficult and most rewarding job there is.

Having just survived my first year as a stay-at-home dad, Father's Day took on a new meaning. What felt, in the past, like another Hallmark holiday or an excuse of dad to sleep off his hangover, was now a day I'd earned, a day of my own, a day to sit for a moment and reflect upon what it means to be a father.

Being a father means so many things.

It means being a teacher, guiding my daughter with my hands, my words, my tolerance, my love, and my adoration.

It means being a coach, encouraging her to try new things, to practice, to master, to persevere through adversity, and to take breaks.

It means being a scientist, observing as she tests her boundaries, taking note of things that work, things that don't work, and realizing the experimental results may be completely different tomorrow.

It means being a story-teller, describing the world to her, giving her a narrative for her experience and  inviting her to create her own.

It means being a doctor, tending to her boo-boo's, physical and emotional, making sure she gets plenty of food, rest, and especially understanding.

It means being a historian, taking pictures, writing down milestones, chronicling defining moments and stories, exaggerating them with each telling as they blossom into embarrassments of adolescence.

Being a father means being a negotiator, a chauffeur, a pillow, a punching bag, a transition object, and a beacon of infinite patience and flexibility.

And most often and most importantly it just means being there...

Happy Father's Day Everyone!

Amari and Mama in the corral 

Happy Father's Day, Dada!

Post-bath Bundle